


Santa Baby

by sparky955



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:50:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparky955/pseuds/sparky955
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quiet, pre-Christmas evening at home with the boys</p>
            </blockquote>





	Santa Baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elijahwildchild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elijahwildchild/gifts).



> Prompts were leather, bells, a revelation

Peace on Earth, goodwill to all men, but I get to spank a few dozen shoppers first.    Well, okay, spanking innocents isn’t exactly in the UNCLE agent handbook.    Maybe I could just send them all to their nice own desert island full of buy one get one free sales and fifty percent off specials and whatever else it would take to put them into a nice quiet  coma for about five hundred years. 

Yes, it’s Christmas in New York City.  Ho, fucking, ho. 

So, all I’m trying to do is get the hell home from HQ.  The bad guys were temporarily quiet in silent acknowledgement of the spirit of the season: making as much money as humanly possible from the day after Thanksgiving to the afternoon before Christmas.  Hey, it takes a lot of selling overpriced Betsy Wetsies, Lionel trains, electric bonnet hairdryers and cheaply constructed faux-cashmere sweaters to underwrite the pursuit of world-domination.  Even THRUSH has to answer to its accountants.  As a result, our little world appeared too temporarily stuffed with turkey and too busy hanging tinsel to be trying to blow itself up and Father Christmas had given me and my favorite PhD a three-day weekend.  

All I had to do was get through this madhouse of a city to get to home, hearth, and Russian. 

And, not strangle any Salvation Army bell ringers, either.   Here, take all my money, just stop with the damn bell ringing, okay? My head hurts enough. 

My car was in the shop at HQ on the rack.   No, THRUSH hadn’t done her in.  She was taken down by a lowly Queens pothole that I’m pretty sure was the back entrance to China.  At any rate, Dave the chief mechanic had asked me if I could hold out one more day because his little girl was dancing in The Nutcracker at her school that afternoon.  And, Paul, his second-in-command, asked me for “just one more day” so he could pull his shift packing holiday gift crates at the HQ distribution center to be anonymously donated to needy families.  And, Charles, that little THRUSH reject who was the low critter on the motor pool totem pole, was not getting anywhere close to my car.  His enthusiasm was matched only by his lack of automotive repair competence.   

Anyway, that’s how I ended up in an UNCLE taxi being driven by a freshly-out-of-Survival-School six-foot seven, two-legged Great Dane puppy who wanted nothing more than to impress his CEA with his newly minted spy skills.  The more he talked, the more my head pounded.  The nicer he was, the more I wanted to just kill him just a little bit.  We had a lot of new Section Two agents.  Surely The OId Man wouldn’t miss one of them. 

Of course, Puppy Spyboy wasn’t used to New York City traffic.  Remember those shoppers and screeching children I wanted to dispose of?  But for the grace of my guardian angel, who was cussing in fourteen languages by the end of the ride, did we not hit any of them, or their cars, between HQ and home.  It was not for lack of trying, however.  Note to self: Puppy Spyboy does not get to drive anything faster than a Schwinn for the next few months.  Years.  Months. 

 

Finally, I was home.  With a tired nod to Fernando and Sam, on front lobby guard desk duty that late afternoon, I pressed the up button for the elevator, then pressed the penthouse button after I stumbled through the doors.    I closed my eyes for a moment in anticipation of getting out of these clothes, slipping into a hot shower and gliding into an even hotter partner later on in the evening.  

Disarming the alarm system, I announced myself.  “Rasputin dear, I’m HO-OME !” 

“Hail the conquering hero.  Reset the alarm, would you?” 

“Where are you, anyway?”  Tossing my briefcase onto the hall closet floor and hanging up my coat, I looked around and couldn’t see Illya anywhere.  

“I’m making some notes that just came to mind on that compound we’re working on.  I’ll be right out.  Hey, taste the soup for me.  I think it needs something.”

 

Walking into the kitchen, I was bombarded by a welcome aroma that had comforted me throughout my childhood.  “You made Nonna’s pasta fagioli !  Mmmmmm, if I hadn’t asked you to be my partner already, I’d ask you again.”  I grabbed a clean serving spoon, lifted the lid, inhaled one of the most marvelous smells on the face of my planet, and took a taste. 

“Nope, it’s perfect.  Just as good as Nonna’s.” 

“You sure it doesn’t need more salt?  Taste it again.” 

A couple more spoonfuls I gratefully sipped.  “No, really, Illya, it’s terrific.” 

“Good, then.  Turn the burner off.  I’ll be in in a few moments.” 

“Okaaaaay.”  Wow,  I didn’t know if it was the heat of the kitchen or the accumulation of the frustrations of the day finally taking their toll, but suddenly I was really, seriously tired.   “Umm, I’m going to rest my eyes for a few minutes, okay?” 

“Good idea.  It’ll put you in a better mood.  Stretch out on the couch.” 

“I’m….  yawn…  always in a good mood”, I answered as I lay down.  

“Yeah, except when you’re not.”  

“Show a little….  yawn… respect for your…  yawn…  CEA, please.”  Closing my eyes, my last thought was, just a few moments, that’s all I need, then I’ll go shower and…

 

When I woke up, I wasn’t on the couch.  I was on our bed.  On my back, completely naked and spread-eagled and quite firmly secured with padded leather extremity restraints.   Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, THRUSH had gotten in and where the HELL was Illya? 

As I made myself calm my breathing and start to consider my options, I heard... music?

 

_Santa Baby, slip a sable under the tree.  For me.  Been an awful good girl, Santa Baby.  So, hurry down the chimney tonight._

Well, whichever of the THRUSH du-jour had gotten in tonight, at least he had good taste in music.  Eartha Kitt.  Illya had been so surprised when I’d gotten tickets to her Carnegie Hall --- 

Illya.  Where was --- he?

 

HE was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, dressed in his second story finery, a black turtleneck and black pants.  There was something about how black always made that little blond bastard’s hair glow….oh, HELL!  A faux-Illya for the holidays, courtesy of THRUSH?   

 

Hold on.  He was holding up a legal pad with our safe word printed in big letters.  And, he was… lip-synching to Eartha?

 

_Santa Baby, a fifty-four convertible, too.  Light blue.  I’ll wait up for you dear, Santa Baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight._

Slithering across the room in time to the music, Illya came up to the head of the bed, touched one fingertip to my lower lip, tilted his head to the side and gave me a look asking permission. 

Considering the moment he touched my lip, my penis began humming _Hail To The Chief,_ I nodded yes.   All of a sudden, I wasn’t tired or grumpy anymore. 

 

_Think of all the fun I've missed,  
Think of all the fellas that I haven't kissed…_

Uh, speaking of kissing.  I honestly think Illya got his doctorate in oral sexuality.  He leaned down and ran his tongue around my lips, licked his own lips, grunted a bit in amusement at my cross-eyed response, then proceeded to work on that second PhD in French…  kissing.

 

_Next year I could be just as good,  
If you'll check off my Christmas list,_

Allowing us both to gasp for a quick breath, Illya then kissed the tip of my nose and, again moving his delectable ass in time to the music, slithered to the foot of the bed. 

 

And began to strip.

 

Shut up, Eartha.  The angels need to sing _Handel’s Messiah_ at the appearance of The Naked Kuryakin. 

 

Slowly, he peeled his turtleneck up his chest, then with a flourish, pulled it over his head and tossed it behind him. 

 

_Santa baby, I wanna yacht,  
And really that's not a lot,_

You keep going, IK, and I’ll sign the Pursang over to you. 

 

Never breaking eye contact with me, Illya backed up a bit, away from the end of the bed.   Performing a slow hula, he lowered his zipper…

_Been an angel all year,  
Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight._

… and like a snake, skinned his pants down and and kicked them off to the side.

 

_Santa honey, there’s one thing I really do need,_

Oh yeah, Eartha.  Me, too.  There’s one thing **I** really do need.

 

_The deed… to a platinum mine, Santa honey…_

Uh, yeah.  Drilling sounds really… good… right about now.

 

_So, hurry down the chimney tonight._

Deliciously naked, Illya came back to the foot of the bed and proceeded to crawl on his hands and knees up the mattress toward me.

Oh, God. Finally.  Cue the angels, again, _fortissimo_. 

His head was just about level with my completely interested penis when he stopped crawling, looked into my eyes… and from virtually nowhere, produced a candy cane.

 

Huh?

 

_Santa cutie, and fill my stocking with a duplex, and checks…_

That Ukrainian sadist proceeded to completely ignore my not-so Mister Happy…and suck on the candy cane… in to his open mouth, moving it around and round.  Pulling it out ever so slowly to lick it up one side then down the other side.  Suddenly he completely slipped the cane into his mouth, then again slowly he pulled the candy cane out, now glistening with his saliva.

I was beginning to think this really was a THRUSH double who had asked Santa to be able to torture me to death. 

 

_…and hurry down the chimney tonight._

Very gently, Illya touched the wet candy cane to the tip of my penis.  Somehow, by the grace of God, I didn’t explode.  Equally gently, he began coating my shaft with the cane’s melting sugar.

 

_I really do believe in you, let’s see if you believe in me._

I believe I’m going to scream if he doesn’t….

Then…finally…he did.

 

When I came to, a couple of eons later, I had been released from the restraints, had been administered to by a warm, damp washcloth, and had my own Christmas elf laying next to me, propped up on an elbow, looking down at me.

“So, you want some soup, now?”

My mouth was too dry to respond.  Taking notice, Illya put the candy cane into my mouth and gingerly moved it around to moisten it.

“My respects to the performance artist”, I murmured.

“The artist was… inspired…by his audience.

“Uh, speaking of the artist… you slipped a mickey into my Nonna’s pasta fagoli!”

“She said I could.”

“ **WHAT?”**

“Well, I called her.  _Hello, Nonna?  It’s Illya.  Ill-y-a.  That’s right, the Commie queer your grandson works with.  Listen, dear, I want to seduce your grandson tonight so would you mind if I put a bit of a new quick-acting, short-term sedative I’m working on in your pasta fagioli recipe? “_

Sputtering with laughter, I wrapped my arms around my best of all friends and rolled him on top of me…

 

…and began plotting my upcoming private performance set to the tune of _Frosty the Snowman._

 

 


End file.
